A Brief Goodbye
by Trish47
Summary: Seeking a bit more angst after the CS goodbye kiss in 4.09? Well, here you go. "He feels nothing: not the softness of her lips, nor the heat of her skin, nor the caress of her hand as she draws him closer." One-shot.


**Just another tag to 4.09 "Fall." I know I'm a little late, but grad finals had to come first. Set from Killian's POV during the CS embrace. Mostly introspective. Ready for angst? Go for it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Once Upon a Time_ or any of its characters. **

* * *

><p>A Brief Goodbye<p>

His skin is numb, as though he's stood for hours at the helm, steering the _Jolly Roger_ through a relentless gale. It's the same sensation that radiates through him after being pelted with cold rain and lashed by harsh winds while on a tumultuous sea.

Except his feet are currently planted on the linoleum of the sheriff's office with bright overhead lights as the only element assaulting him.

Yet, he feels nothing: not the softness of her lips, nor the heat of her skin, nor the caress of her hand as she draws him closer. Any touch that lands upon him as no impact.

Emma pours herself - both her passion and her tears - into their goodbye kiss. It rips him apart that he cannot match her affections under the leash of his absent, yet controlling, master. Even from afar, he's being restrained like a mutt out for a walk - free to move, but only at his owner's pace.

The thing he wants most is in his arms, pressed flush against him, but the more firmly he squeezes her, the more intangible she becomes. If he clutches much tighter she might pass through him like a phantom. This must be what it's like to slowly die of thirst while stranded at sea.

_Water, water all around, yet not a drop to drink._

What's worse: the numbness isn't limited to the hulking cavity in his chest or the surface of his skin. It permeates deeper, desensitizing his being to all things that hold potential pleasure or delight: a side effect of the Crocodile's devising, no doubt.

Centuries later Killian's nemesis is still determined to punish him for loving the wrong man's wife. Less than 24 hours are his to live, to cherish, yet the Dark One has made certain that his dwindling time will be spent yearning for one last happy moment.

What better way for the Crocodile to take his bottomless revenge than spoiling the pirate's final farewell with Emma?

It was wrong to come here. He knew the freedom to seek Emma out came at a price. He just hadn't imagined the tax would strip him of all positive emotion and sensation during their last embrace. Wasn't it torture enough to see her weeping and vulnerable before him, knowing there isn't a single blasted thing he can do to help her stop the impending curse?

By his hand, the fairies' counter-curse was sabotaged before completion. Commanded by the Dark One or not, he feels responsible for all the blood that will be spilled in the days to follow. He should have fought against the Crocodile's orders. . .even if it cost him his life.

Instead, he'd stolen hope from them all. Nothing can absolve him of such a grievous crime.

Right now, he should be as far from this place as possible. The Curse of Shattered Sight is set to rain down on them at any moment. He could hurt any number of people if he turned while in their presence, Emma included.

Still, he couldn't stop himself. Seeing his Swan for a final time was all that mattered. He wanted to memorize her, to carve her image into his memory.

Just not like this, with tears in her eyes - even if they are mingled with an emotion he's longed to see reflected there in recent weeks: love.

Aye, love.

Though words were never said, though he'd had little time to woo her with romantic gestures, the sentiment surfaces in her red-rimmed gaze. There is no chance to savor the fragile expression, to beckon it forth with smooth endearments or coaxing kisses. It is a mere bud; one deprived of blooming by a late frost.

He drags his lips to her damp cheek, then moves to the curve where her shoulder meets her neck. His lips add another weight to the invisible burden she bears.

Once again, Storybrooke's fate rests on her - a responsibility she will never shirk unless she cleaves herself from the title of Savior as the Dark One wishes to be separated from his dagger. She is all the hope this town has left. And she _will_ succeed in defeating the Snow Queen's curse. For as long as he's known her, he's been sure of one thing: she can do anything she sets her will to.

Well, not _any_thing. Even she won't be able to save him from his fate. Not this time.

Nuzzled against her skin, he lingers. With a long draw, he breathes in the scent clinging to her hair. Strawberries and summer and all things light tease his senses, reminding him that she does not belong in a world of snow and ice and dark magic.

Her fingers drift over the nape of his neck, the feeling naught but a tickle against his impervious skin. She keeps her forehead pressed against his. A scant beat passes in which he considers drawing her in again.

Then the approaching curse thunders above them, and he knows he must release her.

"Goodbye." Never has such an utterance been so unsatisfactory.

Without glancing back, he flees. Perhaps she'll attribute his hurried pace as an attempt to reach the docks before the curse strikes. In truth, he is unable to meet her gaze. If she looks into his eyes at this moment, she'll see him for what he is: a liar.

He'd promised her he was good at surviving. His exact words had been: _You don't have to worry about me._

As he jogs toward the harbor, her words from that night filter through his thoughts too. _Everyone I've ever been with is dead, _she'd explained. _Neal, Graham, even Walsh._

And now here he is - a puppet with one foot already in the fire. Soon he, like his heart, will turn to ash. And Emma Swan will add his name to her list.


End file.
